The garden’s Salvador Dali. An invitation
to an early supper. You marvel at his thin, horse hair
paintbrush, his exacting flair with his moustache. You
set down the Pinot Gris. A fresh cut tomato sprinkled
with pepper. You say, it’s the Irish way. He says,
all the salt in Almeria. You take a bite as you look out
at the Mediterranean. It shimmers. Fresh sheets on a long line.
You think, Jesus must have also looked people in the eye.
That the oceans allow for the roots of this world. Glaciers.
You twirl the bulb. Mint leaves on the endive,
the olives glisten. Still, sleep is near. He smiles
as you bite down on the scape. Garlic light, a zinger
of onion, clove. Your mouth warm all the way back
to the village. The moon rises red from the water.
This will not be the last supper. Every five minutes
together, a new world.

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